Lost Causes
by Juxtaposie
Summary: She's never been afraid of her own heart before. Blues. PWP.


**Lost Causes**

_She's never been afraid of her own heart before._

* * *

"You want to… what?" she stutters, a nervous smile accompanying the blush now running rampant across her cheeks. Her question is better than her laughter, which had been her reply the first time he'd asked.

"You heard me," he counters, too excited to be nervous. His hands are stroking the soft skin of her lower back under her tank top, his arms looped loosely around her waist. He's kneeling between her parted knees, and she's only a few inches away from sliding off the edge of the bed and into his lap. She's got her legs wrapped around him, and they're so close that her skirt is already bunched up around her thighs, but it's been awhile since she thought twice about things like that. It's been awhile since she's thought twice about anything.

This time, she thinks twice. She wants to tell him no, because she doesn't know if she's ready, but then he puts a hand on her cheek and mumbles two words through a soft, deep kiss: "Trust me."

Suddenly, she remembers that she might be in love with him, but instead of bolstering her confidence, the thought only serves to heighten her sense of unease. They've spent an increasing amount of time together over the last few months, and she likes him – a lot – but love is a whole different matter. She wants to give in to the emotion that's threatening to overwhelm her, because it's in her nature to foster hope for lost causes, but she's afraid, and that's unusual for her. The things that scare her are silly and inconsequential; dark rooms and scary movies and being home alone at night. She's never been afraid of her own heart before.

"Hey," he interrupts her thoughts, disengaging from the kiss. His stares at her mouth for a few moments before looking her in the eye. "Trust me," he intones.

His fingers, stroking down the side of her neck, compel her to nod, and when he says her name – just once, insistently – she responds, "I do."

He smiles and kisses her again, but this time he put his weight into it, and the hand still at her waist begins to push. She takes the hint and lays back.

He starts slow. She can tell he's trying to ease her into the experience, and she's impressed with his patience – a trait he doesn't usually exhibit – but she's not entirely sure she doesn't want the ordeal over and done with as quickly as possible. Still, she finds the courage to joke when he tells her to close her eyes. "Don't want me watching you work?" she quips softly, smiling at the ceiling as his fingertips skim up the backs of her calves.

His breath is warm and damp on the inside of her left knee as he asks, "Don't you hate it when people watch you paint?"

"This is so not the same thing," she counters breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulls them down her legs.

She can almost hear him snickering when he replies, "Babe, I am about to create a masterpiece."

Her laughter is strangled off by a deep, sudden gasp, and she has to bite back the urge to squeal. After that, she can't decide if she's mortified or actually – maybe, just the tiniest bit – enjoying herself. For a few moments she seriously considers shoving him off, pulling her skirt back into place, and fleeing. Instead, she closes her eyes and focuses on the feelings spreading out from her center. Her toes start to curl. All in all, it's not a bad start. Her anxiety starts to dissipate.

After just a few moments that sweet, familiar sensation sparks in the pit of her stomach, like a tiny flame fanned into life. It's not new, but it's different, because this time the heat spreads like wildfire. She can feel it in her fingertips and toes. It curls in the backs of her knees and deep inside her chest. It creeps across her cheeks, chin, and throat. Even the tips of her ears feel warm.

Her other senses shut down as the feeling of being touched overwhelms her. She's opened her eyes, but the ceiling's not really there, and she doesn't hear her own voice – which is probably just as well because she still gets embarrassed when she catches herself moaning his name. He's all she can feel

In another heartbeat the feeling consumes her, and in that moment when everything spins out of control, and her fingers curl in the bedspread as all the breath leaves her body, she decides that the heart wants what it wants, and she's not afraid anymore.

* * *

**AN**: Yeah, that's right. I went there. Whatcha gon' do about it?


End file.
